


Betazoid Pirates and Other Aggravations of an Upstanding Starfleet Officer

by taliahale



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 07:00:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2459078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taliahale/pseuds/taliahale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Stiles is not quite a space pirate and Derek isn’t exactly Kirk. They make it work, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Betazoid Pirates and Other Aggravations of an Upstanding Starfleet Officer

“Lieutenant Commander Hale?”

Derek hits the crown of his head with enough force to see stars. Holding his breath for a moment keeps him from baring his teeth or shredding any delicate wires. 

Derek disentangles his hands and turns until he can see the speaker. He fixes the helmsman with a stern glare. “Yes, Ensign Lahey?”

It always puts Derek in a foul mood when he's forced to take his claws and a hyperspanner to the guts of his station. Laura spent their entire Hale Family Weekly Breakfast and Bitchfest complaining about the lag in communications relay without giving any direct orders for its correction. Derek refuses to bother Danny with something he can fix on his own.

"It's just...it's just that..." Lahey nervously taps his fingers against his uniform trousers, eyes focusing on anything besides Derek. The first few weeks on the bridge are often difficult for junior crewmembers, but the Bajoran helmsman looks petrified whenever forced to speak. It’s getting on Derek's last, admittedly quite short, nerve.

“ _Yes_ , Ensign?” Derek shouldn't take his frustration out on the new kid, but he’s proud of himself for refraining from sighing or flashing his eyes or giving in to the urge to strangle anyone.

“You, uh.” Lahey meets Derek’s gaze for a brief moment before he ducks his head, again. “It looks like you have an incoming transmission, sir.”

Derek turns to his station and curses in one of the three languages he doesn't share with any of the present bridge crew. In fixing the short he's disabled the forwarding to his earpiece. The relay screen’s flashing a cheery yellow, which can only mean--

“Lieutenant Argent, we’re being hailed,” Derek informs Allison. He throws the transmission onto the viewscreen without waiting for her order. She’ll want the call.

“Well if it isn’t my favorite Nova-class starship!” Captain Stilinski smiles, larger than life as he grins out at the bleary-eyed crew of the Gamma shift. “You’re looking particularly fetching in science blue, Allison.”

“Stiles.” Allison rises from her perch in the captain’s chair and tucks a strand of glossy hair behind one pointed ear. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“What?” Stilinski’s tone of mock offense sets Derek’s teeth to grinding. “A fellow can’t check in on his Chief Engineer’s best girl?”

Despite his charming smile and friendly demeanor, Stiles--not his real name, but he's pleasantly assured them it's physically impossible for most non-telepaths to produce his proper moniker--is the last person Derek wants to see on a viewscreen. Stiles and his merry band of misfits are capable of wreaking entirely legal havoc throughout the quadrant with nary a care for the mess they leave for Derek to clean up.

Well, for the entire crew to clean up, but that’s not the point. And really, someone back at Command has it in for the Hales. Derek and Laura have spent an inordinate amount of time babysitting the captain of the merchant vessel Beacon. The Beacon itself is no match for Derek’s beloved Triskele, but their chief of engineering's a certifiable genius. Dr. Lydia Martin was the first human graduate of the Vulcan Science Academy. After an acrimonious divorce, she left behind a storied career as a Starfleet research scientist to 'sow her wild oats.' At any rate, Lydia takes great pride in keeping the Beacon at the forefront of civilian technology. For a junker, the pirates' ship runs like a dream.

“And do I spy my second favorite communications officer lurking behind you, Lieutenant Argent?” Stiles asks, shooting Derek a lascivious grin. Derek feels the frown on his face deepen of its own accord. “Sleeping at your station, Hale? We’ve been trying to get a hold of you for fifteen minutes.”

Allison raises an unimpressed eyebrow in Derek’s direction.

“I was conducting a minor repair to our subspace transmitters,” Derek grumbles.

“Aw, that’d explain it.” Stiles nods, dark eyes trailing down Derek’s form. “Your, uh, uniform shirt’s a bit.” He waves one of his spindly-fingered hands, a faint blush tinging the sharp cut of his cheekbones.

Derek looks down. His shirt is bunched up from his contortions beneath the comm station. The top of his pants and several inches of abs are on display. He glares at Stiles and tugs the shirt back into place. He fiddles with the deactivated hyperspanner to keep his hands occupied after his uniform is set to rights.

“There, uh, was actually a reason I contacted you.” Stiles turns his head to the side when someone talks to him from offscreen. “Tell Lyds I’ll be there as soon as I can. Sorry.” He looks back to the viewscreen with a pinched expression. “Look, I. We appear to have run into a wee bit of trouble after a business deal of sorts with a couple of vaguely shady Betelgeusians." Stiles sighs. "The cargo we took on appears to be, uh, more alive than anticipated.”

“I am afraid I do not follow.” Allison shoots a disapproving look at Stiles. Well. As disapproving a look as a vegan pacifist with negligible facial movement can muster on short notice.

“Our contract was to transport emergency supplies to a wildcat Betelgeusian colony suffering under severe drought conditions,” Stiles says. “Not precisely on the up and up, but technically allowed under the latest hardship provisions outlined in the United Federation--why am I explaining this, you know." He waves a dismissive hand. "Anyway. They wanted us to deliver the usual: foodstuffs, pharmaceuticals, chemical rain-aids, soil additives, that sort of thing. But Kira was getting some unusual readings from the cargo hold after we left space dock and--”

“They’re goddamn eagles!” Erica says, shoving Stiles to the side until she’s visible. Her blonde curls are ruffled, her red lip color is smeared, and she looks a bit wild about her glowing, yellow eyes. “We need anything you can spare that we could feasibly use as an animal sedative. Are you done flirting, now, Stilinski?” she snaps before disappearing from view.

“Right, uh, what Reyes said.” Stiles flinches and flails, arms pinwheeling when Erica’s taloned hand briefly reappears to flick him on the ear. “Shit. Would you--sorry. They’re not precisely eagles, but they’re winged Betelgeusian animals and they’re, uh, loose on the ship.” He runs a hand over his close-cropped hair and slumps in his chair. “I’m pretty sure they were trying to get us to illegally smuggle these things. If you can help us bag ‘em and tag ‘em we’d be happy to turn them and all the pertinent documents over to you.”

“You realize we are a small research vessel, Captain Stilinski?” Allison asks, sounding supremely unimpressed.

“Yes, ma’am.” Stiles smirks, but the tightness of his posture and the dark circles beneath his eyes belie the seriousness of the situation. “But you’re also the only law ‘round these parts. I thought you might be willing to lend us a hand.”

“You’ve watched too many Western holos,” Derek says.

Stiles smirk curls into a small grin, black eyes softening when the land on Derek. “My old man _is_ the Sheriff,” he replies, considerately ignoring Derek's flushed face.

“How long until you’re in transporter range?” Allison asks.

“Less than five minutes. I'd deeply appreciate any hands you can spare.”

“I’ll debrief Captain Hale and update you as soon as possible,” Allison says. “Lieutenant Commander Hale, you have the bridge.”

Derek nods in acknowledgement as Allison exits the bridge. He beckons Ensign Greenberg to take his place at the comm station and settles into the captain’s chair.

“Oh, and Hale?”

Derek drops his hyperspanner, looking up to see that Stiles is still on the viewscreen.

“Stilinski?”

“Thanks for taking my call.”

“I, it was--I was simply fulfilling my--”

“Oh, sorry, you’re breaking up--" Stiles cuts out the picture, but leaves the sound on. "Kah-shhhhshhhhshhh--”

“It’s perfectly--”

The audio transmission cuts out with a noise like a soap bubble popping.

\--

Laura laughs so hard at the glum expression on Derek's face that it takes a solid sixty seconds before she manages to formally relieve him.

"Oh, Der, you always brighten my mornings," Laura manages through her laughter. “And say hello to the Doc once you get over there.” Laura wipes away a tear and collapses sideways into the captain’s chair. She yawns into her coffee. Laura’s not particularly suited to Gamma shift, which is why she usually leaves it to her minions--‘crew, Laura, they’re your crew, not minions’--to watch over the Triskele’s bridge at night. “She owes me a bottle of Altairian Grand Premier.”

“Do I want to know?” Derek asks.

“Most definitely not,” Laura replies, blowing on the surface of her still-steaming mug.

“Right." Derek shoves his affects into his shoulder bag. "I’ll just head to the transporter room, then, shall I?”

“Good idea.” Laura nods, already absorbed in sorting through the day’s tasks on her PADD. “Try not to run into any bulkheads while you’re staring at Stilinski’s ass.”

“That was _once_ and Stilinski’s ship was built for some insanely small species of humanoids." Derek realizes what he's just admitted and stammers. "And, and I, I was most definitely _not_ staring at--” Derek draws a slow, steadying breath until he feels his fangs retract and his eyes return to their usual green. He resolutely ignores the muffled laughter of his fellow crew members. Traitors. See if he covers Gamma for Boyd, again. “I don’t know why I let you bait me.”

“Because we’re family and that’s what families do,” Laura replies, smiling sweetly as she flashes her eyes at him.

“I’m feeling the love.” Derek inclines his head at the red glare. “I still can’t believe they assigned me to your ship.”

“ _Our_ ship, baby bro!” Laura waves him off. “Enjoy the eagle thingies.”

Derek exits the port door and boards the main turbolift. He steps off on deck 04, debating whether or not to stop off at his quarters before transporting to the Beacon. His thoughts are interrupted by Cora calling his name from the sickbay.

“Derek, you’re taking these.” Cora shoves a large gray case at him with a scowl. “The EMH said they’d probably work for the eagle thingies.”

“She said they’d _probably_ work?” Derek fumbles the case before grabbing it by the handle.

“She’s an Emergency Medical Holographic program, not a xenobiologist,” Cora snaps and crosses her arms over her chest. “And I’m just an Academy research assistant interning with the bio department, so unless you want to conduct an experiment on their mating habits and have me record the results--”

“Right, yeah, got the picture.” Derek laughs, gently shoving his sister in the direction of the transporter room. “Walk me down. I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“We’re on a minuscule ship with a crew of 79.” Cora rolls her eyes, but strolls with him, anyway. “We had breakfast together two days ago and I kicked your ass in holodeck fencing yesterday.”

“I wouldn't qualify one successful bout as kicking my ass. And it's a crew of 78,” Derek corrects, adjusting his grip on the case. “Doctor Deaton’s been reassigned to the Academy and we’re still waiting on his replacement.”

“Thus the EMH, right,” Cora agrees, leading the way into the transporter room. “Hey, dipshit, one more to beam over.”

“You can’t talk to me like that,” Whittemore hisses, eyes flashing a poisonous yellow as he enters the coordinates for Derek.

“No, she can’t.” Derek steps onto the transporter pad with the sedative case in hand and his bag still perched on one shoulder. “Ready to beam out, Chief Petty Officer Whittemore.”

“Try not to spend the whole day ogling the Dread Pirate Stilinski, would you?” Cora drawls and waves goodbye.

“I do not--” Derek manages before Whittemore activates the transporter with a sibilant laugh.

\--

Stiles finds Scott hanging upside down in one of the portside Jeffries tubes between decks A and B.

“What...what exactly are you doing, Scotty?”

Scott yelps in surprise, barely saving his life signs detector from a long, slow fall in the low gravity of the maintenance corridor. “Looking for an injured eagle thingy.” He twists to look at Stiles with furrowed brows. His inverted position renders the expression more comical than the engineer had intended. Stiles bites at his lip to keep from laughing. “It should be here. I don’t understand why I can’t find it.”

“Okay.” Stiles leans into the tube, shuffling on elbows and knees to get look past Scott. “But why with the upside down?”

“Oh, right.” Scott smiles crookedly and does a sort of crunch until he’s parallel with the wall. He disentangles his legs from the ladder and says, “I needed both hands, but then I dropped my palm beacon, so I don’t really need both of them anymore.”

“Of course you don’t.” Stiles smiles back, still kneeling next to the tube entrance.

There’s an odd thud, metallic and meaty, from behind them. Stiles turns to see Derek Hale staggering back from a low hanging bulkhead.

“Shit.” Hale huffs, rubbing his forehead as he ducks under the traitorous bulkhead.

“You’re the only humanoid who ever manages to do that,” Stiles says. He shuffles sideways so Scott can exit the tube. “It’s actually kind of impressive.”

“I’m not even that tall. I don’t understand how this keeps happening,” Hale says. He's still scrubbing a hand over his forehead when he sets down a medical case.

“You could try watching where you’re going,” Stiles says. He offers Scott a hand, which is cheerfully waved off as the CMO scrambles into the corridor.

“I was wa--never mind. Presents from Cora.” Derek nudges the case with one booted foot. “They may or may not work, according to the EMH.”

“Deaton’s replacement still hasn’t arrived?” Scott asks, already unlatching the case to dig through the modified hypos. “Isn’t it against regs to go more than a week without a sentient medical officer aboard?”

“The EMH is sort of sentient.” Stiles shrugs. “And it’s not like Deaton was any more helpful than one of those things.”

“That’s not what you said that time it set your arm,” Derek says. “You think that’ll work?” he asks Scott.

“Don’t see why not.” Scott offers each of them a couple of hypos. “Just be careful not to inject any non-Beatlegeusians and try not to get clawed too badly.”

“Advice for the ages, bro.”

Derek definitely doesn't smile.


End file.
